


December 25th, 2014.

by IwillbeReichenbach



Series: Christmas from afar. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birthday, Christmas, Gen, Great Hiatus, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Serbia - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock's Birthday, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: In the second year that Sherlock was away, he spent Christmas alone again.  When his birthday came he was still alone.  Does a ringing phone give him hope?Happy birthday to super Beta Sandrina, and to Sherlock Holmes.  I love you both.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Series: Christmas from afar. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093094
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Sherlock Xmas 2020





	December 25th, 2014.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrina/gifts).



December 25th, 2014. London.  
Mycroft glanced at his watch. Jesus, it was late. It had been a trying day. His refusal to drive out to his parents’ home had resulted in them arriving at his own house unannounced, at breakfast time. Forcing him to adjust his plans dramatically. Thoughts of checking in with Sherlock had been forgotten amongst the tedious attempts at festive cheer and then in sorting out the little matter in the Middle East.

Conventionally, it was too late to call, but that mattered little when it came to Sherlock. He so rarely kept sane hours anyway. Not that he was sure where in the world Sherlock was right now. Chances were, it was a suitable time to make contact. Mycroft dialled the number he had committed to memory. The phone rang and continued to ring. Would it kill him to just answer the first time for once?

He waited a few minutes and tried again, knowing it was unlikely that Sherlock would bother to ring him back. It had been months since they had spoken. Sherlock had suggested then that he was coming towards the end of his quest. Still there was no answer. Perhaps he was being petulant after last year’s Christmas day phone call fiasco.

Late December, exact date unknow. 2014. Serbia.  
I was alone for the first time in hours, days maybe. Time was a slow-moving blur. I had little idea what day it was and only the vaguest idea of the time. Evening, judging by their habits. I could smell dinner food on them. I hadn’t slept; hadn’t been allowed to sleep. The stress position and the bright light prevented any chance of that. I was uncomfortably cold; the bastards had even taken my shirt. It had been tossed under the table in the corner behind me, along with my shoes and jacket. 

Alone, I could work on trying to slip my hands through the cuffs that held me. They were tight and the position I was in offered me very little leverage. It was something to pass the time; something better than wondering what everyone in London was doing. On wondering whether John was still seeing that girlfriend. On wondering whether I would get out of here alive. 

Behind me something caught my attention. A noise, soft humming. I tried to turn to look, but I could not shift so far around with my arms held out to the sides. What the hell was it? 

A phone. My phone. Mycroft. Sleep deprivation was making these realisations come slowly. I redoubled my efforts to get an arm free. I yanked and twisted; not caring that skin was tearing or that muscles were straining. The metal dug into the flesh on my wrist, but I didn’t give a damn. Christmas day. That was the only reason he would call. Evening. Odd, he had called in the morning last year. Why evening? Something unexpected must have happened. National emergency, international emergency, our parents dropping by. 

I paused my struggle. Why was no one here celebrating? Surely, Christmas would be obvious to me. Were my skills slipping that much that I failed to notice Christmas time? Oh, oh. The Julian Calendar. Of course. It wasn’t Christmas here until early January. I went back to wrestling with the cuffs. The phone went silent. It did not stop me from trying to free myself. The phone being so close was my ticket out of here. 

When it rang again, I already had blood dripping from my wrist. 

Early January. 2015  
At the end of an exhausting day, Mycroft turned over the pages of his diary to see which meetings he had to attend the following days. The niggling feeling that he had forgotten something had plagued him all day long. He called out to his assistant. 

When she poked her head into the room, he asked, “is there something I have forgotten to do today?”

“Not that I am aware of, sir.”

“I have this feeling that I have forgotten something?” His brow crinkling as he spoke. He hated this nagging feeling. 

“All your appointments have been attended to.”

Mycroft frowned at this. “Thank you, I must just be tired.”

“Isn’t it your brother’s birthday today, could that be it, sir?”

“Oh, dear.” How could it have slipped his mind? With the international developments in the early part of the new year, Mycroft had not had sufficient time to chase up Sherlock’s movements, or to even call him back since the unanswered call on Christmas day. Add to that the forgotten birthday. His stomach clenched with guilt. It was nearly midnight, but he decided to call anyway.

Early January, exact date unknown. 2014. Serbia.  
The mem smelled of smoke and alcohol when they burst through the door. The flicker of the flames outside moved shadows across the walls. Shouting and laughter were the soundtrack of the night. I had only the vaguest knowledge of Serbian Christmas traditions, but I vaguely remembered something about Badnjak. It was some nonsense about burning a log, that I had failed to completely delete. The day had started with gunfire all around the compound. I had nearly dared to hope it was an extraction team, until I had heard the faint ring of church bells. That was when I realised it was the start of their Christmas day. 

They were still laughing as they came towards me. I tried to lift my head to see them, count them, read their intentions, but I simply didn’t have the strength. Worn down by the pain they inflicted daily and their endless questions. My legs could hardly support me anymore. The smell of liquor was in the air around them. 

Something was pulled down onto my head. Fear spiked at the thought of a hood. If I could see I could work things out. Without my sight I would be useless. It was just a hat though. They pulled it down hard over my ears. A red triangle and a white pompom appeared in front of my face. A Santa hat. Stupid. They didn’t even celebrate Santa Claus here. It wasn’t all bad; it was warm, and it kept most of my long dirty hair out of my face. 

They group were milling about in front of me, taking fast, slurring their words, talking over one another. I couldn’t follow the conversation. They all stood back, except for one. He stepped forwards. My heart beat a bit faster. I was at a loss as to their intentions. 

I didn’t even see what swept my feet out from under me. I was falling before I registered the sharp pain in my shins. I scrabbled to my feet to save my shredded wrists. Their laughter filled my ears. 

The next man stepped up. I saw the wooden rod this time. A broom handle or something similar. Knowing what it was did not give me any power to stop it though. It hit lower, near my ankles. Swept them out from under me. The left first and then the right. I fell again. Laughter again. Got to my feet again. 

I tilted my head to watch as the next person came forwards. He was reeling drunk. I had seen him before. I braced for the swing of the shaft. It hit me in the side of the knee with a sickening crack. I didn’t even try to stop myself from yelping. They didn’t care if I screamed. I didn’t fall this time, but my right leg felt less stable than it did before. 

The men laughed, but this time it was directed at the drunk man. They were ribbing him for his failure. Slowly, it was becoming clearer that this was some type of competition. What the rules were, was beyond me.

The next man stepped up. He was less drunk than some of the others. He had a focused look about him. The test swing whooshed through the air. My stomach churned. I dreaded the pain that was about to come. He took a step closer; I heard the stick come towards me. My feeble effort to jump over it failed, I still fell, it still struck me in the shins, I fell heavy against my bonds. My head jerked forwards. The hat I had forgotten nearly came loose. 

“Do you still want us to believe you are Santa Claus?” He asked in slowly enunciated Serbian. He poked me in the chest with each syllable. My own words echoed in my ears. They had asked me who I was, they had asked hundreds of times. I had told them every identity from the Queen of England to the Loch Ness Monster. I had, at some point, claimed to be Santa Claus. He must have been referring to that. He pushed me back with a hard shove and snarled, “I guess not.”

They clapped him on the back and congratulated him as he went back to the group. I understood then, the aim was to have the hat fall off. If it fell, someone won. I wondered if my neck was strong enough to throw it off. If I could do it without being too obvious. They wouldn’t like that. They would want to win properly. 

Another man stepped up. I fell. The hat stayed lodged on my head. Again, and again, it was repeated. Their laughter was dulled by the thrumming in my ears. The next blow hit me in the side of the knee again. Was it the drunkest one again? Or did they all have shit aim? My vision was starting to blur, and nausea rolled over me in sickly waves. I was sweating beneath the stupid hat. My ears were buzzing. I wondered if I still had an ACL in my right knee. I couldn’t put any weight on it. I would be just as lame as John was when we first met. It would be me limping around London with a cane if I ever got out of here. That was looking increasingly unlikely. 

One of the more sober ones stepped up. He walked a full lap around me, studied the hat. He stopped beside me, just forward of the chain. Balanced the weapon. He swung low and hit both legs out from under me in one cruel movement. The hat fell in a puddle at my feet. 

I didn’t try to get up. I just stayed there, hanging from the chains. Their applause and cheering were deafening. I couldn’t hear the sobbing breaths I tried to draw, but I could feel them catch in my chest. I could feel the blood running from my wrists again, down towards my armpits. 

The winner was still being celebrated as they filed out. One man stayed behind. He was the one that had nearly succeeded. He grabbed me by the hair, and roughly by one arm and hauled me upright. The hat he picked up and jammed back onto my head. 

“We will be back later. I win then.” He told me in accented English. His sour alcohol breath against my cheek. “Hristos se rodi.” 

Without thinking, I replied in the traditional way. “Vaistinu se rodi.”

He smirked at me and then turned to leave. Behind us my phone rang out a muffled vibration in the silent room. I thought the battery would be dead by now. He stopped. Went to the table. I couldn’t watch him, but I visualised him rummaging through my clothing and finding the phone. He yelled at the others to come back in. They came into the room as he brought the phone up to his ear. Too drunk to realise the risk of this action. 

“Zdravo.” He said into the phone. His voice confused but still sounding like he was challenging the caller. 

I would not get a better opportunity. I started to scream. I didn’t even know what I was saying. I just hoped Mycroft could hear me; that he realised the desperation of my situation; that he knew that I needed him. 

They descended on me. Held me in a rough headlock. Choking me; tried to cover my mouth; to shut me up. I flailed and fought. At first for the ability to shout and then, panicking, for the ability to breathe. The phone was on the floor, someone was stomping on it. Bits of plastic flew across the ground. Consciousness was fading, it was in a race with hope. 

When I came to, instinct dragged me to my feet; instinct told me to see if I was alone. I looked around; my movements were slow. My body was not keeping up with the urgency of my mind. The room was empty. I could hear more gunshots outside and the inebriated singing of the men around the fire. 

It was probably my birthday. That was why he had called. It was strange to experience both Christmas and my birthday on the same day. If he had heard me, if he had managed to figure out anything useful from my incoherent shouting, I might live to see another day. Maybe he could figure out where I was. Someone might be sent to extract me. I might get another Christmas with John in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson might make her fruit mince pies for us. Molly might drop by, or Lestrade, with a nice juicy murder if we were really lucky. I’d bicker with Mycroft about the last slice of Christmas cake and tell him he was getting too fat. John would tell us to behave. 

A smile slipped onto my lips. This last year had been amongst the hardest of my life but there was a little bit of hope that in time, I might get to see the people that ae important to me again.


End file.
